KDKB Radio “Arizona Sounds – Volume Two”

Still stranded (vacationing) in the North Woods cabin, no internet, but an ancient hi-fi that’s fine. Here’s an odd one—the cover looks like the result of LSD and colored pencils. It’s actually very cool. It’s a variety-pak of AZ bands, c. 1978. Starts out with the florid acoustic guitar you’d expect from “Arizona Sounds – Volume One” – but here it’s on “Two,” as well. Nothing changes. It’s folksy and serious, but still a pretty good song called “City Talkin’” by The Freeze Band. “Banana King” by The Clones is great, as catchy as a whimsical song about bananas can be. The Banana Man! Beggs ‘n Aitken start out with some slide guitar but then get too jaunty/humorous for Mr. Dour. The song, “I Found Love in Front of My Face,” no doubt about oral sex—but a positive, light, take, as it should be. Mark Murdock & Matt Niskern serious things up with some electronic jazz fusion, not bad either. The song, “Seacloud,” may as well be subtitled “diaphanous fusion song with no singing.” Can you imagine trying to write lyrics to a song called “Seacloud?” “On My Mind,” however, almost demands that we listen for the verbal poetry—it’s by Tom Previte and Keny Francis—I thought Keny might be a woman singer, but apparently he just forgot the second “n”—well, I don’t know which one is singing, etc. – oh, liner notes… Tom. The crucial thing is that that lead guitar part, through an annoying effect, could use the “Euthn’zation” pedal up to “11.” Lightnin’ Stock then hands us “Fly Me Back to Tucson”—sounds as country as you’d expect for someone who lets the ‘g’ outta their name. A bullseye for fans of the relentless, jaunty, G-rated fiddle. The reason I liberated this disc from the milkcrate by the woodstove is because the name of the band that starts out the second side is: Trout Fishing in America—which is of course the name of everyone’s favorite Richard Brautigan book. It takes a lot of confidence to saddle yourself with that responsibility—kind of like calling your band The Holy Bible. Liner notes say they’re “everything the name implies, whatever that is.” So I guess we’re not getting to the bottom of that mystery, just yet. The song, “High in the Highlands,” is about getting highlanded, whether it be a natural high, or a natural high. Arizona indeed has some highlands, and the first time I visited the state I nearly got stranded and perished in a snowstorm in some lofty mountain pass! We take it down a little with Valley Fever, who “Can’t Let Go”—we’ve all been there. By the way, I’m hearing a thread running through some of these songs—lead guitarists who can shred, but play like they’re getting paid by the word—i.e., non-stop from beginning to end. Could that be the “Arizona Style”—lets hope not! Next, a song called “Cynthia” by Wolfgang, which is a little harder than what we’ve heard so far, but also has a psych/bubblegum flavor—nice. Faux Päs serves us “Whiskey”—I like the simplicity— not “Bad Whiskey” or “Single Barrel” or “Sour Mash Fizz” or “On-the-Rocks” or “Sippin’” —it’s just whiskey! They then name-check a few other intoxicants in the odd chorus—I can’t say I understand this song (and I understand whiskey)! At this point, the mellow love song, “Can’t Hold Back,” by Barbara Hinck, is really welcome—it might not be as weird as some of this stuff, but it sounds retro in a nice way. Wait, this is 1978, and I’d say the song sounds late-Sixties—it’s a little pop, a little soul, and melodic, and she’s an excellent singer. Reed Garner’s “The Sticker Song” is a novelty/humor number, referring to the radio station that put out this record, KDKB 93FM—did I forget to mention that? Liner notes mention that it wasn’t written just for the record, but who’s gonna believe that? It closes out with some harmonica—musta known I’d be listening… 48 years later.

9.11.26

McDonald and Giles “McDonald and Giles”

On my annual vacation in the “North Woods”—no one to talk to, so excuse my word count, here. As is the custom, I’m in a cabin with all modern conveniences but no internet access. I came across this odd album from 1970 in the small collection next to the hi-fi. One of those album covers that opens up, and its exterior, 24”x12” landscape shape is a single photo. Over it, it says, in purple block letters: “McDonald” on the left side, and the “and” crosses the spine, and then “Giles” on the right side. The picture is a washed-out, purple-tinged, photograph of four people in some kind of woods. Two “couples”—woman/man, man/woman. Is it sexist of me to immediately think the men are the McDonald and the Giles? Yes, it is. But then, I had initially clocked the songwriting and production credits on the record’s label—primarily “Ian McDonald” and “Michael Giles”—normally man names—and then the musician credits on the inside cover—same, along with Peter Giles. Pretty much that’s it, aside from Steve Winwood and Michael Blakesley appearing on one song each, with some string and horn arrangement credits. No mention of any women, not even the dames on the cover. The funny thing is, when I looked at front and back, before opening it up, I thought it was the same woman! Two separate photos! Which… I thought would be a funny bit—like the dudes are each secretly in love with the same woman—evidence on front and back cover! But no—opening it up, as you’re supposed to—not the same woman—though they have similar looks, longish blonde hair, eyeliner—they both could be models, in that movie, Blow-Up (1966). Now I notice something even funnier—the “McDonald” and the “Giles” (words) are placed directly over each of their penises! Naturally, they’re wearing pants, but is idea that the letters are covering their… enthusiasm… as well as tagging their identities? If so, this McDonald, young, long hair, looks exactly like your idea of a rock musician. The other guy, Giles, also long hair, also has a very suave mustache, and he’s so strikingly handsome, you’d guess he was an actor.

The record starts out sounding like any number of bands heavily influenced by The Beatles—for maybe two minutes—and then the drums come in, which don’t sound like any drums you ever hear in rock music. Maybe jazz—but I don’t know enough jazz to come up with a comparison. The drums then become a lead instrument, maybe the lead instrument for the rest of the album. Along with the bass, which is also very much on top of what are sometimes very sparse arrangements—though, also, sometimes very layered and complex. I feel like the bass player, Peter Giles, should have been named in the band name, but seeing how he’s also a Giles… redundant? But you’ve got to wonder if he wasn’t slighted at not appearing with a supermodel and his name over his crotch. Even his first name. The production is incredibly crisp, the opposite of muddy, you can make out everything. Sill, I’m not sure who is singing what, and I can’t (or won’t?) make out much of the lyrics. I’m mildly interested, but maybe it’s just as well. Is it wrong, sometimes, to just think of singing as another instrument—and ignore what the words say? Well, don’t tell the lyric writer! But that’s what I do sometimes, and am doing here—like listening to music with singing in a language you don’t understand.

Anyway, that first song, fantastic—it’s 11 minutes long—if it was the whole side I’d be happy. Called “Suite in C”—it includes several musical themes. Over the drums, bass, and guitar, there’s flute, then strings, then saxophone—it’s really a pretty crazy number, or suite, in all. Something about turnip greens—no, “Turnham Green”—which, if that doesn’t sound like a place in London, nothing does. The next song, called “Flight of the Ibis” is among the most beautiful romantic pop songs ever recorded—and I understand that puts it in a bigger pool than would fit on a double-decker bus—but still, it also has a uniqueness, mostly thanks to the drumming, that makes it its own thing. Why didn’t I hear this on the radio in 1970? Well, great year for pop songs, but had I heard it, I might have assigned it to another enduring grade school crush. “Is She Waiting?” doesn’t fare as well, due to juxtaposition (great songs on either side!) and I’m not sure what the answer is… but I think she is. The side ends with another long one, “Tomorrow’s People – The Children of Today”—another standout, more excellent everything, including silences, drum breaks, horn section, individual sax, flute, and also, tempo changes, and yes, whistfulness.

The drums don’t sound like any drums I’ve heard on a record, that I can think of, offhand. I know, I said that. I think Michael Giles also sings, and wrote some of the songs—what else does he play? From the album credits: milk bottle, handsaw, lip whistle, and nutbox. And Ian McDonald, besides guitar, keyboards, sax, flute, singing… also, clarinet, zither, and “sundries!” (bandaids, dental floss, and postage stamps?) And then, just the whole thing—it’s really very complex throughout—changes in tempo, dynamics, themes—horn arrangements, string arrangements—and no small amount of silence. Nutbox. It’s some record. Does the whole thing remind me of anything? That punk jazz band, Blurt, maybe a little bit, but not really. Wait… where’s my Blurt record? Gone. Tears in the rain. Maybe the Minutemen, a little (for you kids) not that you’d confuse them—but was this record an influence for those guys? Probably, along with a million other things. Add your own comparisons here:_____.

Side Two couldn’t possibly stand up to side one, could it? It’s okay if a band leaves it all on Side One and fills the rest like a neglected, scum-covered swimming pool—but not here! It’s only one song, 22 minutes—with “parts”—I’m really having trouble reading the tiny light green words over the huge orange painting (by Charlotte Bates) that takes up the entire inside cover, opened up. It was written with Peter Sinfield, who, as you know, is from King Crimson, poet, etc. But… Birdman? Flying? That’s what we’re trying to find out. It starts with some prog-pop, dancing puppet nonsense, which is fine, but then evolves into an extended jazz jam, mostly drums, bass, and some excellent saxophone—carries on awhile (you’d be happy with all day) and then slows in tempo—a big organ sound and chorus. Big change then, some insanely complex rhythms (I think… too complex for me to understand) an aside, another fadeout, and finally another theme arising deliberately from the silence like a troupe of mimes slowly approaching from down a twisty, English path, which eventually—though without words—could only be about something arising. Then the return to an earlier theme, but based in piano—quiet, not quite melancholy—I’d be more inclined to say resigned, while being determined, if that makes any sense. It then builds on repetitions to a majestic wall of conclusion. The boat has stumbled upon the island that’s going to rescue all of our lives, including past ones. It’s quite beautiful.

I headed out to the Crazy Mart, the closest convenience store that had a couple of tables and internet access—free to use as long as you buy a pricey undrinkable coffee from their robot barista and weren’t looking at porn. “I can tell you where the nearest McDonald’s is,” said the nosy clerk, after a short while, looking over at me—so I guess they did monitor you, somewhat. It turns out Ian McDonald passed away in 2022, but Giles is still around, perhaps still has hair and the mustache—I found some videos of him, looking like your favorite college professor. The crucial bit of information is that they were the founders of King Crimson, along with Peter Sinfield, Greg Lake, and Robert Fripp. I’m kind of embarrassed to say that that’s a band I know nothing about. When I was in high school, why did I go for Nektar and Triumvirat, but steer clear of King Crimson? I have no idea. I’m sure it wasn’t due to songs called “Dance of the Puppets.” I can only guess it was because I was frightened off by that album cover—their first record, the painting of the big, pink, horror-stricken face. I think I thought it was something else! What, I have no idea—like a place, or a book, or a concept. But it’s obviously 12-inch-square—what else would it be? One of my great misconceptions! If I could explain how my mind works/worked, maybe I wouldn’t be sitting here in the North Woods at the Crazy Mart looking at porn. Anyway, maybe that explains why this record sounds so alien to me—King Crimson is the missing link! Maybe it’s time to go back and… I don’t know. Didn’t someone say, you can’t return to Graffiti Bridge?

The other big WWW fueled shocker is that Ian McDonald was also one of the founders of the band Foreigner! Really? Hearing that is akin to you telling me Martin Scorsese directed Porky’s. Foreigner—that late seventies insidious purveyor of ear-worms, who I saw live on their first tour—I believe 1977—opening for the Doobie Brothers! Which means I saw Ian McDonald in person, same evening as my hero, Skunk Baxter! (Incidentally, that same year, I think, I also saw Greg Lake, live, in front of alotta people, playing with E & P.) Maybe it’s not so crazy… sure, I had that first Foreigner record, listened to it excessively… but later rejected it like a botched organ transplant. Sometimes things are worse in your memory than on paper, though, so I listen to it on YouTube—the first two songs (need I mention) and it’s worse than my memory—plus, I’m going to have “Cold as Ice” looping in my brain until I can replace it with something (an icepick)? I do take the opportunity to add to the 6000 comments below the video: “Shear perfection. Most underrated band of all time. I’m 69 years old and saw them on their first tour. They blew away the Doobie Bros (except for Skunk). I drank Riunite from my botabag, smoked bogus weed laced with angel dust, and on our way home from Bowling Green, the Ponitac threw a rod!” Pardon the nostalgia!

9.4.26

Bobby Bare and the Family “Singin’ in the Kitchen”

I’m a Bobby Bare fan, just based on how much I love his duet record with Skeeter Davis (“Tunes for Two”), but I’ll get to the bottom of his bottomless discography, like, never. No doubt I bought this stay-at-home 1974 album because the cover is so excellent—a photo of BB, a couple of rugrats, and a couple of women—featuring a chaotic table of dirty dishes (including a partly eaten watermelon) in the foreground, partly out of focus, and looking more real than anything you’re ever going to see on an album cover. I didn’t realize until listening to it that eight of the ten songs are by Shel Silverstein! (Also didn’t realize “The Giving Tree” was a song as well as a classic book.) Did I tell my Shel S. story recently? Remind me, later, after coffee. I’m not familiar with any of these songs, but they’re all okay. Standouts? “She Thinks I Can” and “Lovin’ You Anyway,” perhaps. Admittedly, the energy peters toward the end, or maybe I was so tired by coffee-time that I nodded off while drinking it and now it’s cold. Ever do that? The needle then made thousands of useless revolutions in no-man’s-land. Kids? If you buy a turntable, two words: Automatic Return. No credits whatsoever, so I’m compelled to use the Big I, as I’m curious. I didn’t presume “The Family” is the albinos in The Omega Man (1971). Not as easy as you’d think to get to the bottom of—this record is dying to have liner notes. Anyway, I got this much—besides Bobby we have Bobby Jr., Jeannie Bare, Chet A., Larrie, Bobby, Chip, Dave, Lloyd, Bill, Tommy, Joe, Randy, and Billy. Lot’s of Bobs and Bills—and I’m thrilled there’s a Randy. I don’t know who the more mature woman singer is, but she can sing. Did I say Bobby Bare can sing? He’s excellent. The hoards of singing kids isn’t my mug of Ovaltine, but it did remind me to encourage anyone reading this to look for the youtube video of Lee Hazlewood and a bunch of Swedish brats singing “(Let’s Take a Walk) Down Valhallavägen”—besides being twisted, it’s the absolute best thing on the entire internet.

8.28.26

Billy Preston “Will It Go Round in Circles” / “Blackbird”

The reason, for me, I think, that a Beatles cover on an album often feels like a… bummer (I know I’ve said “shit-anchor”—but maybe that’s too harsh) is because, in most cases, it makes you just want to hear the Beatles’ version. So whenever I come upon an exception to that “rule” I find it memorable. In this, case, of course, it’s a side of a Billy Preston 45—a great version of “Blackbird.” I like the big sound, and the band—well, except for the harpsichord flourishes—an instrument that we should only hear in dated who-done-it’s (and for that matter, never)—but that’s just me, and overall, this is my favorite rendition of this song. The part that always bugs me a little when Paul McCartney sings it (“Into the light of a dark black night”), Billy Preston turns into the highlight of the song by giving it the full gospel treatment—and just does it once—all you need—and now it’s the center of the performance. Or maybe he finds it as awkward as I do, and just leans into it, who knows. The other side, “Will It Go Round in Circles,” is the song I always used to think of, with fond memories of Billy Preston—it’s a great song—and it only sounds better now, on this brown, 1972, A&M 45—than I remember it, even—a little slower than in my mind, with a steadier groove than my memory can ever pull off. The only downside is the little flourish with the “mouth organ”—which, I guess, looking at the credits—isn’t a harmonica—my mistake—but a melodica—which I guess is a “mouth piano.” Either way, it’s just a funny bit, put in there like a few raisins in your coleslaw. There’s a version of this song from Midnight Special you can find on internet that’s really great—though a somewhat different band than the studio recording (no Brothers Johnson)—that I’m sure I saw on TV when I was a kid—that just forever ingrained it in my mind, in a good way—along with this version from the radio, of course.

8.21.26

Brewer & Shipley “Shake Off the Demon”

The first song, “Shake Off the Demon,” sounds totally familiar—was this their hit? Oh, I know, it sounds like Byrds song, or Gram Parsons—which song? I’ll think of it… Or maybe the Flying Burritos? Am I thinking of that “Older Guys” song? Naturally, the reason I bought this record is because the picture of the dudes, Michael Brewer and Tom Shipley, is so totally insane looking, how could I not? It looks like a treated black and white photo—I mean, this is 1971, it’s not digital manipulation or a phone app—and it’s even signed! (by Thomas Weir) so obviously they were all as impressed as I am. I wouldn’t call it flattering—what they look like is a couple of insane, opium smoking, absinthe drinking poets from few hundred years ago in France, or… you get the idea! There’s a much smaller, color photo on back—they look totally different, a couple of attractive young guys—so it’s a choice to look wacko on the cover—and I like it. Who are these guys? They both sing, play guitar and other axes, and they wrote all the song (except one by Jackson Browne). It’s a weird album—nice, overall, but I find it a bit boring, too. It’s the odd album where the first song on each side are the ones with the best grooves, and also my favorites, at least. “Shake Off…” and also, “Working on the Well”—I dig it, which is another way of saying, “working on the well”—not that I understand it! I suppose some of the subtler ones might start to grow on me if I give it a few listens—we’ll see. The “i” tells me they both died recently—they’ve been around. Their big hit was “One Toke Over the Line” from around 1970—I didn’t know that was them—it’s kind of a country song, and I always thought it was a bit dull, but it is a blatant weed reference, which at the time… well, “toke” was a relatively new word! So they were on the cutting edge, sweet Jesus. The exciting thing I read was that they met in Kent, Ohio, my old home, or one of ’em. They then moved to LA, didn’t care for it, then settled in Kansas City. I can relate! They put out 10 albums and a lot of singles. I still don’t know which one is Brewer and which one is Shipley!

8.14.26

Frank Sinatra “Where Are You?”

This is one of my favorite Sinatra records—have I said that before? Probably. But forget all those other declarations made in the heat of the moment—this one, from 1957, is it. Not my very favorite, but right up there. And I didn’t even own it (or hear it) until recently—well, relatively recently, maybe 10 or 12 years ago—can’t keep track. I just really like the overall quietness, slower tempo, and how the understated arrangements compliment Sinatra’s melancholy approach. Honestly, I don’t know if these Gordon Jenkins arrangements are understated, that’s just how if feels to me—you know, compared to the big, bold, energetic sound on the uptempo Nelson Riddle records—which I like, too, of course. The song, “Where Are You?” (1937), is my favorite—it’s a song I love, yes, because of the Mildred Bailey version in Love Streams (1984). (Unforgettable.) But this has got to be the saddest version, ever. Also: “Maybe You’ll Be There,” “Laura,” “Autumn Leaves,” “I’m a Fool to Want You.” All twelve songs are good, those are my favorites. The cover is amazing, a close to life-size, close to photorealist, color rendition of Sinatra—his sad face partly obscured by his folded arms, blue sweater, cigarette smoldering. As grim as the image is, it’s also quite flattering. It expresses “where are you?” nearly as well as the song. If that wasn’t enough, the back cover, b&w sketch, a somber man, the listener, also smoking, parting the curtains of his bachelor pad, looking out, while the face of has absent lover floats behind him like a Macy’s balloon ghost. But she’s gone.

8.7.26

Tom T. Hall “Me and Jesus” / “(Old Dogs, Children and) Watermelon Wine”

I used to play a Tom T. Hall song (“Coffee, Coffee, Coffee”) and I might have some more records by him. This is an irresistible, 1972, single, due to the song titles alone. I think they were both released as singles in other combinations, as well, but I’m not getting into all that. “(Old Dogs, Children and) Watermelon Wine” is, as you might expect, a nostalgic, sentimental, cornball, but it’s framed in such a ridiculous way it’s kind of charming. He starts by telling the story of talking to an old-timer working in an airport lounge, who happens to be the age I am now (that always gets my attention), who claims these three items are the only thing in the world of value—which our narrator thought to jot down, then dreamed about, then wrote this song, with it’s like 17 key changes. Naturally, you can make wine from anything with sugar in it, and I assume there’s a reason we’re not ordering watermelon wine with, even, pasta primavera, but somehow I missed out on trying WW during my drinking days—which I guess strikes me as kind of tragic. The gospel anthem,“Me and Jesus,” is the best Jesus song I’ve ever heard, and while it’s recorded with the excellent Mount Pisgah United Methodist Church Choir, that piano player, whoever it is, is the real rockstar on the song. And it is a rock’n’roll song in its purest essence. Should your particular congregation ever proclaim rock music to be a sin, have the elders give this a whirl, and the next thing you know there’ll be singing, dancing in the aisles, and no one’s falling asleep during the sermon. If Jesus doesn’t love this song, I’d be really surprised.

7.31.26

Randy Crawford “Miss Randy Crawford”

I know it’s dumb, but just because my name is “Randy” I will buy records by anyone with that name. Well, it wouldn’t be the same if my name was Elvis. This scheme has uncovered some fascinating musical gems (Randy Lee, Randy California, Randy VanWarmer, Randy Pie) so I persist. Exciting to find a woman who fits the bill, and spells it with a “y,” not an “i”—as is more common when women use that name, for some reason! Also, interesting, I had a coworker, once, named Randy Crawford, a golden-throated man in the sales department, which I guess, isn’t that interesting, besides the fact that I remember him. Right off the bat, I get the feeling this isn’t going to be my thing, just a little more mainstream than is my taste, but by the second song, I start to come around to it. Often it’s someone’s decision to put the audience pleaser, or more middle-of-the-road number, first on the record, and as this is 1977, there are maybe some disco flavours here, or at any rate, the uptempo, the jaunty, the energetic. You wouldn’t put a slower, soul ballad first, I guess, and I suppose that makes sense, but that’s what I get excited about—and there are some good ones here, but later on in the progression. For instance, the song called, “Single Woman, Married Man”—I want a whole record of that! It occurs to me I know the song from somewhere else, but maybe not. It’s possible the song hooked me the first time I listened to it—when I first found the album—and now it all comes back to me. Or maybe I heard it when I was 17, who knows. It’s my favorite, here, if I’m forced to pick one. The whole record sounds great, recorded at some storied studios, including FAME. Great musicians throughout and there’s also some fine string arrangements, and horns, on some songs. Quite a variety of songwriters. My other favorites are “This Man,” the standard “At Last,” “I Can’t Get You Off My Mind,” “I’m Under the Influence of You,” “Over My Head” (which I didn’t recognize, but I might have remembered from from that Fleetwood Mac album I wore out as a 15-year-old), and a beautiful version of “Desperado” (covered by everyone from the Carpenters to D.E.B.T.) which surprises me, seeing as how I’m as big a fan of the Eagles as “The Dude” Lebowski.

7.24.26

Spirit “Twelve Dreams of Dr. Sardonicus”

My worst nightmare, what I’ve been dreading for years, the Arrow of Fate finally pointed at this monstrosity—years of expensive therapy haven’t flushed out the fear it brings back after I was kidnapped, in 1970, by hideous, dripping, clowns and locked in the “funhouse” of horror playing nothing but this record! Not literally, but that’s how the music makes me feel. The collection of full-color, wavy-mirror images of, apparently, band members, reinforce this—but it’s the back cover that really terrifies me—a black and white image in an oval frame that defies explanation—as do the twelve songs listed in the wrong order—WTF. Especially since they’re presented on the inside cover IN order (as in the “12 Dreams,” in a kind of suite). Who is Dr. Sardonicus? No one knows. It’s Spirit’s fourth, also known as “Spirit,” or “Spirit IV,” or “Sozo,” and/or everything but “late for dinner.” Who’s in the band? Anybody’s guess—but there are excellent songs by Randy California, Jay Ferguson, and John Locke—and inspired execution from front to back (or back to front, if you want to hear back-masked revealings). I’ll admit, my room takes on a bit more groovy hue during the Randy C. numbers. And to be completely honest, honestly, there’s some really cool parts, and some fairly lame parts, back and forth, sometimes within the same song—sometimes within the same musical phrase! What’s it all about? Street Worm and Mr. Skin, and how you’ve got nothing to hide because it’s nature’s way when I touch you, and so forth. What kind of psycho calls a zoo an “Animal Zoo?” Some twisted c.1970 hippies, that’s who, freaking out in a variety of styles, including: & roll, pop, folk, acid, country, ballad, jazz, show, blues, circus, medieval, psychedelic, baroque, prog, bubblegum, hippie swing and guitar freakout, all for your absolute pleasure. My favorite record of all time.*

*Also, it invites hyperbole.

7.17.26

Jo Mama “J is for Jump”

The album cover “jumps” out at you, all right, and that’s because of its peculiar aesthetic—washed-out color and odd sense of humor—it’s about as sickly a picture of “nature” as you’re likely to see—a scraggly desert landscape, with the band, in question, “performing,” including a synchronized “jump!” (Well, three of the five—two are sitting, so it’s kind of hard…) It looks like they drove the minimum distance out of LA to find a vista with no buildings in the background—though, likely it’s a garbage dump—and snapped a roll of film in the midst of a yellow filter of smog—some not very impressive hills in the background threaten to disappear altogether. An almost identical photo on back (no jumping). What’s weird is… no one thought to crop either photo—so the band would be a little larger, and you wouldn’t have annoying tree branches on either side, and you could lose a bit of the featureless sky in back and an ugly dirt road in front. Why they lugged drums and a piano up there, but then have an oil drum, old sink, and trash can standing in for guitar amps, is anybody’s guess. And for all that, this fucked up album cover is why I bought the record. It sure wasn’t because of the worst band name ever. I don’t know if there was originally an insert with some info, but the cover, while providing song titles and writing credits, tells us nothing about who’s in this band. How did they navigate this kind of thing (lack of info) in 1971?

Not much more luck, now, 55 years later, though I’m sure I could figure it all out without leaving my chair. But I am leaving my chair (involuntarily) because this record is making me levitate! That’s all I know, for sure… plus, it’s Abigale Haness (excellent singer) and Danny Kortchmar (AKA Danny Kootch) (best AKA in the history of AKAs) on guitar (and writing half the songs), along with some other fine musicians. The songs (including several covers) are all over the place, from “Wouldn’t kill me if I never heard it again” to sublime. I’ll run through a few. “Keep on Truckin’”—just about as California as a song with that title can be. “Back on the Street Again,” very good, nice groove, and same goes for “If I Had a Billion Dollars,” even better, but eclipsed  by “My Long Time,” maybe my fav on the record. “Love is Blind” is a really nice soul song, as well. The jaunty intro and outro to the sultry, jazzy “3 A.M. in L.A.” is kind of dumb, though it’s partly what makes it feel so cinematic—it sounds like something that should be in an Alan Rudolph movie. I like the originals better than the covers, even though they’re by excellent songwriters like Carole King and Mac Rebennack (who’s got even better AKAs than Kootch). There is one absolute standout, however, an oddball called “Have You Ever Been to Pittsburgh?” (by “D. Simon”) about which I can find absolutely nothing—kind of refreshing—takes me right back to 1971—information-wise—and Pittsburgh—otherwise.

7.10.26

Evangelist Herb Pugmire “Cordovox and Brass”

I don’t exactly remember when, or in what milkcrate of desperation I found this precious flawed oddity but I’m sure I must have been attracted, first of all, to the album cover, which has one of the more crude cut-and-paste jobs I’ve ever seen—quite charming! It’s Dr. Herb Pugmire’s disembodied head (as well as him with Cordovox and him with trombone), floating in a sea of Safety Orange. It’s striking. It’s disturbing. Mine also has a ballpoint scrawl—and upon closer examination I discover it’s signed by Herb Pugmire! The back cover includes three square inches of liner notes, all you need. Also, a mailing address—I’m not sure if it’s Pugmire’s, or Artist’s Records, or perhaps some random shyster’s—though that’s all water over the dam by this point. Also, the price $5.00, or $5.50 by mail. Dr. Pugmire, when not Bible crusading on “four continents,” had time to put out a few records in 1972, including this one, one called “The Great Pyramid and Christ,” and one called “Zodiac – Eternal Gospel”—which I’d be interested to hear (somewhat against my better judgment). Side One features the Cordovox electric accordion—which as far as I care to investigate seems to be an accordion/organ/rhythm combo—and sounds great—though the gospel standards aren’t my cup of Lipton. Side Two includes more gospel instrumentals, this time with John Gilrup backing with a full Conn organ, sounding enormous, and pretty great, and Pugmire playing insane sounding lead, over the top, alternating between the euphonium and his “special-built” trombone. I’m not sure how it’s altered, exactly, the photo on the cover is too crudely glued on to garner clues. Either way, they sound similar, difficult for me and my hearing fatigue to keep track of which horn is which—but either way, it sounds like the world’s largest kazoo.

7.3.26

Kay Starr “Rock and Roll Waltz” / “I’ve Changed My Mind a Thousand Times”

Kay Starr’s 1955 number-one-hit-song with Hugo Winterhalter’s huge-band Orchestra and Chorus is the A-side of this sturdy RCA Victor 45, which has aged like one of your dad’s tobacco pipes. It was written by Shorty Allen and “Dick Ware,” who, according to the ’pedia, was actually the pseudonym of the actual lyric writer, Roy Alfred’s mother. There’s got to be a story there, maybe a movie of the week. The music’s got some complex subtext going on, but the lyric’s a bit convoluted. While I’m sure it’s nostalgic to the league of YouTube comment scribes, it tires me out. It’s about a young person going home and catching her parents trying to waltz to a rock’n’roll number. I just want to say, kids, please don’t spy on your parents! You might not be able to un-see things you wish you’d never witnessed. I prefer the B-side of this one, which Kay Starr really heats up over the weird chorus occasionally dropping in “do-whaas” and “bop-bops.” A “thousand” seems like an exaggeration, but after ingesting this celebration of fickleness, I’m inclined to agree. But rest assured, in the end, you’re the “only one for me.” (Her.) So she says. In my (s)experience, however, I’ve got to warn you, the odds are better than “lead-pipe cinch” that she’s gonna change her mind again.

6.26.26

Gibson Bros. “Big Pine Boogie”

Not necessarily “punk rock”—I guess you could say lo-fi blues roots garage or something—but I’m talking about a philosophy more than a musical label—and, for me, punk rock was over, I don’t know, by the first time any band released an album they didn’t have to pay for themselves. I know that’s dumb, but it’s how it felt at the time, so around 1981, I was through with it—which is okay—because rejecting it was part of what was punk rock—if that makes any sense—which it doesn’t—but that’s okay, too. Also, punk rock seemed to evolve with an alarmingly terminal tunnel-vision from people sometimes playing instruments they didn’t know which side was up on… to the same kind of endless obsession with virtuosity that got so tiring with rock bands in the Seventies. So, when I moved to Columbus, Ohio around the spring of 1986, and popped into the nearest bar to our apartment behind the Blue Danube (I still drank, smoked, and visited bars) and saw the Gibson Bros. performing, I knew that I was more or less back to, not only Ohio, but the land of (literally and figuratively) not giving a fuck. They immediately became my favorite band. To be honest to my failing memory, I might have seen Scrawl first, and they became my favorite band, and/or Royal Crescent Mob, and they became my favorite band. They were all right up there. Had I merely seen a name on a flyer, I would have guessed a band with the name “Gibson Bros.” to be someone to avoid, but the dumb name was part of their charm. At the time, I think their only release was on cassette (which I might still have). Mostly, it was live shows. I believe from the first time I saw them, I realized that their approach was all at once deadly serious, ironic, completely sincere, comic, not ironic, goofy, fun, and steeped in misery—and that seemed to be to some degree the point—but they weren’t about to articulate that in any way other than playing the music.

This record came out in 1987, and I must have listened to it a lot, seeing how I remember every note and nuance—and I haven’t even listened to it in a while. But it’s holding up, on some fine OKra Records vinyl. A riddle. What’s the best thing to eat with okra? More okra! What’s the best thing to put on okra? This record! It’s the original lineup—Jeffrey Evans, Don Howland, Dan Dow, and Ellen Hoover—three of them play guitar most of the time, three of them sing. No one whips out a harmonica or otherwise does anything to destroy the environment. The songs are a combination of originals and covers—and I’m too underpaid to provide history on the songs they chose to revive, nor am I analyzing lyrics, just now. Though, “Bo Diddley Pulled a Boner,” I believe, refers to the idiom in the old-fashioned sense, as with the original-text Hardy Boys (in the rewrites they changed it to: “fucked up, massively”). No animals were harmed in recording this record; that’s just “Reverb” turned up to “11.” My favorite is probably still “Casey Jones,” though maybe just because it’s the first song—all the rest tie for close second. The album cover mimics the look of one of those educational musicologist series from the recent way past, in the mellowest combo of soothing blue and white, with some barely decipherable, low-contrast black & white photos. Don’t be put off by the “Sex Instruction” claim, that’s a joke. It does accurately promise “12 songs plus an ODDITY”—no two-headed lizard—that final enticement being the time-honored, uncredited rendition of “Shakin’ All Over” —that sounds like it’s live from someone’s kitchen!

6.19.26

Les Baxter “Unchained Melody” / “Medic”

Les Baxter was born in Mexia, Texas, a good place to stop for Asian buffet on a drive between Dallas and Houston. I have only one question. Why, in God’s name, didn’t Mr. and Mrs. Baxter name him Xavier, or Dexter, or ever, Rex? Leslie? Maybe that explains why he went on to release hundreds of records (it’s called overcompensating) —including Yma Sumac’s “Voice of the Xtabay” —and be considered the “Godfather of Exotica” (depending on who you ask). I’m guessing his favorite movies were not the ones (soon to be) rated “PG.” Though that’s no doubt what the rating would have been for the 1955 movie, Unchained, where this first song came from—one of those songs everyone knows even if they don’t realize it, because it was a massive, romantic hit. I don’t care for it, at least the corny version here. Here’s a list of things I like less than prison movies: the flu, Sundays, TV shows about medical procedures. The B-Side, “Medic,” incidentally, is the corny theme song from a 1954 TV show, called Medic, starring Richard Boone as a doctor, that I hope to never see in reruns. The previous owner of this 1955, purple label Capitol disc marked it with a stuck-on, red, printed number “36” —DM me if you want it back.

6.12.26

Led Zeppelin “Physical Graffiti”

The greatest mystery of Led Zeppelin is why this (1975) album has a song called “Houses of the Holy”—and the album called Houses of the Holy (1973) doesn’t have a song called “Physical Graffiti”—but rather, “The Song Remains the Same”—which is not the same song. I’m just kidding—there are no mysteries around Led Zeppelin—they have all been solved by 2026—fans spending their lifetimes uncovering the clues, digging into the odd corners, no stones left unsoiled with proof, facts, opinions. I considered trying make up some outlandish tale about this record, but no one’s going to buy it. Then I considered the irresistible pastime of ranking the songs in my order of preference—but Led Zeppelin fans don’t care, nor would they be swayed, nor angered, nor delighted. The thing that’s interesting to me, I guess, is how I was only briefly a fan, in the Seventies—then suffered decades of indifference—only to emerge as a big fan, once again. And if forced to choose, this is my favorite Led Zeppelin album (w/the rest tied for close 2nd). For me, the most important thing is listening to vinyl versions of the records on a good system (or maybe a bad one, because that’s what I have, but it never sounds so good as when this record is on). This might be the best sounding rock record ever recorded, or at least tie for first place. Not that it’s a contest—I’m sorry to always be framing things that way. I vow to never do it again!

But first, the last thing I want to do is name my favorite song on this record, and my least favorite. Why? Because I always have a favorite and least favorite—that’s why I never had kids. But for eggs (poached/scrambled) and potatoes (homefries/French fries)—claiming favorite and least favorite is not hurting anyone, and the same goes for songs on a record. So, with this album, favorite—well, later—I want to end with the positive. First, my least favorite is “Kashmir”—which I’m sure many won’t agree with, because it is a great song, and what’s more, for some it’s not only their favorite on this album, but their favorite song by the band! Or even favorite song, period! Or even favorite thing in the whole world—but let’s not get ridiculous (I mean, cats, sex, ice cream, raindrops on roses…). So, what do I have against that song—besides having heard it one-thousand too many times? Nothing—I like it, and I greatly admire it, but it’s just that I like the rest of this double-record better.

What’s my favorite? It used to be “Houses of the Holy” (which was, for a long time, my favorite Led Zeppelin song), but now I’m taking the occasion of the celestial scimitar pointing this way for review, to give it a fresh listen or two or more to pick a new fav! (In progress). In the meantime, how about what’s one of the coolest album covers ever! No, it’s the coolest. Somehow I don’t remember when realized where the picture was taken (no internet) but I lived 6 blocks away, 10 years after the album came out (which sadly coincided with a Zeppelin-down-time)—but just that photo—who’s the badass on the steps, who’s got those trashcans in their personal shrine? It’s some album cover. Okay, there are just some really good songs here. And the recording—I hate to single anything out—but this has to be my favorite drum sound I’ve ever heard on a record. I’m done stalling: My verdict for LP’s favorite song, on 5 June 2026? “The Rover.” (Could change, someday, and probably will!)

6.5.26

Fuzzhead “High in a Basement”

The 15th or so Fuzzhead album, from 1995, and if this wasn’t universally regarded the best record of 1995 (seeing how it’s the best record of the Nineties) then I have absolutely no use for “universal” rankings, Rolling Stone poll, etc.—and it wasn’t, and I don’t. It’s the kind of record, if I saw it in my local record store and knew nothing about it, it’d be devastated that I can’t afford the $20 they’re asking for it (it’s worth more than that, but due to my current financial situation, I have a $5 cap). Fuzzhead isn’t a famous band (to me they’re famous—my own definition—which is more about ethereal mythology than social media numbers), but they’re not exactly unknown, so you can use that ol’ inter’et to find everything you want to know, and I won’t have to repost stuff I wrote in two previous Fuzzhead reviews in the Farraginous realm. I own three LPs and a couple of CDs—I’d like to find more, someday. Some of their releases are cassette only, and seeing how the kids are flipping over cassettes these days (or is that over?) it’s likely those will be even more pricey. An odd aside: I don’t usually struggle to read the hieroglyphics scratched into the vinyl area between the last song and the label (usually some obscure note about the pressing, I guess), but I looked at this one for some reason, and it weirdly includes a quote: “They got it now Robbie”—which you’ll recognize as something Neil Young said in the movie, The Last Waltz. Weird.

The cover is a black and white photo of a dude with what looks like a dried (hopefully) pelvic bone over his head as a mask. I only say “pelvic bone” because it reminds me of those Georgia O’Keeffe paintings of desert-dried bones with big, round openings in them—but for all I know, it could be a partially eaten French pastry from the state fair. At any rate—it’s a creepy, evocative photo. The back cover is a photo collage of the band members playing music or otherwise hanging out (in a basement). It says: “Recorded live in the basement at Franklin Ave./ Jan.-Feb. 1995.” So there you go. The recording is fantastic—it’s as good sounding as any record I have—balanced, in the room, dynamic, not muddy, warm, everything you want in guitar heavy psychedelic rock. There’s a great drum sound (Neil Sherhag), and the rest: Bill Finsel, voice, John Howitt, bass, Scott Hosner and Bill Weita, guitars are all vivid. Bill Weita is, of course, the Fuzzhead mastermind. I’m not gonna list them, but side A is four songs, B is two—the closest thing to an endless jam is “Catnip in Her Head”—most of the second side, which is sublime and too short. The remainder of the record is songs—my favorites are “Springtime” (well, more of a “coda,” I guess). “Chicken” (relentless, could have gone on longer), “Patch on your Eye” (a ballad, more or less), the infinitely catchy “Another Step Closer” which reminds me of Half Japanese (another favorite band from the time), and “88.8” (if that wasn’t a radio hit it’s because, well, you know…). Whoops, that’s all of them.

5.29.26

Monty Kelly “(I Loves You) Porgy” / “Tango Bongo”

The romantic strains of Gershwin’s “(I Loves You) Porgy” (a standard, from Porgy and Bess) fills the room, and it occurs to me, as it sometimes does, that someone lived here before I did, and someone will live here after I don’t live here anymore. I recognize this song—probably from Nina Simone, though I don’t remember for sure—it’s ingrained in the ol’ grey matter. This is an upbeat, pop version from bandleader, Monty Kelly—instrumental and a little jazzed up—the musicians uncredited. Well, it’s 45, with no cover, just passed down through the generations, since 1959, anyway, the year before I was born, which means, I guess, someone was drawing up some plans for my life, possibly over wine or cocktails and the emotional melody of this very record. No one would have guessed I’d be playing it in 2059, and it sounds just a heart-bending—scratchy but vivid. I had very few records when I was a little kid, but one of them was “In the Year 2525” (Zager & Evans) —which still might play perfectly in the year 2525 (if man is still alive) and sell for $1 on eBay. The “B” side (of Porgy) sounds every bit the B-Side, an original called “Tango Bongo” (long before there was an energy drink by that name). It makes me feel like I’m in a movie, but only for two minutes and 34 seconds, or the time it takes you to thank the uncredited percussionists on this track while shotgunning a can of sparkling caffeine, taurine, panax, BCCAAs, guarana, creatine, CoQ10, THC, and Dew infused Tango Bongo!

5.22.26

The George Shearing Quintet “The Shearing Spell”

The stylized illustration on the cover—matchbook size silhouette of the quintet, casting effervescence on a barely formed woman in the aether—reminds me of the illustrations in my parents’ restaurant guidebooks that captured my imagination—so I must have connected those two magical artistic realms, during childhood. This was one of the records in my parents’ collection—and one they played all the time! (I recently found this copy for $1!)  The black and white charcoal drawing on back is even better—an elegant woman in a NYC cocktail lounge and—almost invisible in the grey gloom, foreground left—in first-person profile (representing you)—is her date, with a cigarette. Uncredited liner notes by some frustrated novelist—very good, especially considering there was no Wikipedia and so forth—a lot of information, there, and some opinions! A great band, including Johnny Rae, Armando Peraza, Al McKibbon, Bill Clark, Willie Bobo, and “Toots” Thielemans. It’s relatively early in the well over half century long Shearing discography—from 1955.

There’s a lot going on here—essences of jazz, Latin, pop, show standards, blues, classical, exotica, lounge, easy listening. Depending on the listener—where you’re dropping in, what you’re drinking, where you’re coming from, what you know. For me, this is, more than any other record, the sound of my childhood. I don’t know who brought the Shearing records to the marriage—probably my dad—he said he saw Shearing live in a club in Denver when he was in the Army. But it was my mom, home with the kids, who must have played this endlessly. I can hear it along with the vacuum cleaner, TV, kitchen sounds, kids making a ruckus. At first, I had no thoughts about it, that I can remember—though, no doubt, unformed feeling. But as time went on, I think I felt like it was kind of square—too mellow, too subtle for me, too much about being a kid at home. Now it sounds like the genius record of all time—there’s nothing I can manage to be less objective about—I’d love to listen along with a first timer to the album—preferably with an open mind. It’s no doubt why “Autumn in New York” is one of my favorites, all-time. I can even tolerate the weird, over-the-top harmonica (Toots) on “The Man I Love,” which I’ve spent my whole life (until I finally read these liner notes) wondering what the hell it was.

5.15.26

Taylor Swift “evermore”

Thinking about Taylor Swift, I have to admit an inexplicable fear, which is weird—it’s not so much that I’m afraid I’ll take a misstep and have the “Swifters” coming after me like the Children of the Damned—it’s more about the sheer amount of information (re: Taylor Swift) as if information has a horrible weight… which it does. I suppose this occurred to me after I photographed the cover of this album, after selecting it for scrutiny via my random system, and ever since, the photo “widget” on my phone keeps presenting me the picture as if there was a “death and taxes” inevitability to our collision course. It’s kind of chilling. Also, I’m not exactly a fan—not surprising, since I listen to very little music from the last half-century, and I wouldn’t be able to pick her songs out of a crowd. Now, I have nothing against immense popularity—after all, I like tacos, sports, sex, drugs, and cats, like a normal person. But to be honest, I wholeheartedly dislike such a high percentage of music, in general, the casual observer might assume I don’t like music at all. So, how did I end up with a vinyl version of this album? Funny story—I saw it in a used bin for $2 and snatched it up, thinking I was capitalizing on some pricing glitch, only to discover, once home, that it’s a double-record—and was somehow missing side one and two! Thus, the discount. Probably should have cost less.

The remaining disc, however, was a beautiful, translucent, dark green, and I did capture the thrill of putting a Taylor Swift record on the turntable, waiting to hear what comes forth (admittedly, a thrill I have with every odd record I buy without knowing much about it). I like the cover, no text, just a large, kind of creepy photograph of TS, back turned to us (it would be genius if it was actually a stand-in) hair braided, wearing a warm coat (reminds me of “The Cowboy” in Mulholland Drive). It asks you to consider how weird the back of people’s ears are. Or for that matter, ears in general. Or humans, in general… uh oh, better get off this hamster wheel! A little background. I don’t normally have any truck with Wikipedia pages longer than The Warren Report, but a few things immediately surprised me: she was born in Pennsylvania; is only 36 (at press time); and was named after James Taylor! (and not Charlton Heston’s character in Planet of the Apes). Enough for now. The remaining disc’s inner sleeve has complete credits for each song, in the smallest font I’ve ever seen, and also, lyrics. I must admit, I’m not a lyrics-oriented listener, generally. After all, my favorite song (from like age 12 to 14) was “Tumbling Dice,” and I still have no clue what Mick’s singing in about 95% or it. But I believe the lyrical content is important to Swift-world, and she puts them right out there with impressive verve, so I have no choice but to pay attention. My least favorite line on the record is, “I come back stronger than a 90s trend.” I don’t even know what that would be, unless puking was a 90s trend. But, come on, I want to be positive, so the approach I’m going to take is to go song by song, listen closely, and then only mention the ones I love. For the songs on the first, missing, record (if you think about it, what in the hell happened to that other disc? —weird!) I’ll try to find them on YouTube. Ha. Which will, no doubt, irreparably Swifterize my algorithm.

So. “champagne problems” is very nice—I can relate, yet I can’t—unless that first line is a double metaphor. I had “Night Train” problems, myself. “gold rush” is one of those songs that the lovely chorus takes me into its arms—but the rest of the song pushes me away—maybe that’s the point. “’tis the damn season” really does give me a wistful feeling—not SAD, but rather sad-nostalgic. “tolerate it” perfectly describes how I feel about this song—I’m emotional on one hand, but kind of repulsed by some of the word choices. “no body, no crime”—I wish more of these songs feat. Haim—it’s a good one—aka “no harmonica no chicken.” “dorothea” is a catchy, moving song—remind me to listen to that one again. Switching to the vinyl version, now, it’s notable how much better “ivy” sounds on the record than via the ’tube—maybe because of the green vinyl—but… TS, must you curse so much? “cowboy like me”—my favorite on the album — “And the tennis court was covered up with some tent-like thing” is a fantastic opening line —and I love the chorus in this song, too. “marjorie”—very nice song, kind of haunting, I’m convinced by the sadness. Though I’m only half-convinced by “evermore”—it’s about 80% much too much! And that’s all, folks! —yet, there are two “bonus tracks”—which I have (vinyl) but I don’t get (understand)—meaning, without them, would there only be two songs on Side Four? That’s nearly as bad as one of those smartass “three side” records. But no, of course the bonus tracks are here. If they weren’t, how would we know they exist? “right where you left me” is one of my favorites on the record, too, really good song. “it’s time to go” is okay, too, if a bit overdetermined—but a good closer (if you’re lucky enough to get the bonus)! Next time I make a record, the last song will be called, “This is the Last Song on this Record” —and it’ll be all about how it’s the last song on the record!

5.8.26

Rotary Connection “The Rotary Connection”

This should be the kind of record that’s legendary, hard to find, and thus costs a million dollars… but it’s easy to find—so we’re lucky. It’s still legendary. The 1967 LP is the first of six Rotary Connection records that came out by 1971—I’ve never seen the other five—I’ll keep my eye out for them. The band name sounds inevitable, even if you can’t put your finger on it, exactly. The album cover seems to be a pleasant, kaleidoscopic abstract—but, no, wait, you look a little closer and realize it’s eight women, might be members of the band, all but naked, lying there in a big, circular pattern, their feet toward the center, recreating something—I’d know what if I hadn’t skipped out of art history. They’re covered only by some religious sheet music (I believe), and they all have fluffy angel wings and crowns of daisies. Viewed with churchgoing bifocals, that cover might have gone over less well with the squares than even the music.

The band was put together by Marshall Chess—I guess this was his new label—so he assembled this group of misfit musical geniuses—“misfit” is a matter of opinion (I mean it in the best way), though genius (I vowed not to overuse that word, but whatever) can be heard. I’m familiar with none of them, save Chess, and Charles Stepney, also an arranger and producer, and, of course, Minnie Riperton, before her solo career. I guess some are session musicians, and some were in a band, but for this brief moment in time they’re together and up there with the most interesting thing going on, though not remotely commercial—too experimental! Some of these tracks should have been big hits of the day, though—maybe they were—I was seven years old and still trying to figure out my audio system. Between the most catchy songs, there are some oddities too weird even for me—quite out there. There’s this mini-tradition of rebelling against the two-sided platter by refusing to say A or B, so, fruity alternates instead (“This Side” / “That Side”) etc.—that just seems quaint after the CD era—but I get it. Here it’s: “Trip 1” and “Trip 1 (cont.)”—I like it. (Of course, there’s always still an A and B, or One and Two, if just for tax reasons.) If I ever put out a solo record, I’m gonna follow the tradition—my idea: “Chaos Theory” / “The World of the Chicken Pot Pie.” Or maybe, how ’bout… no. I’ll stop there.

The best way to approach the music is to pretend I just came home with it, knowing nothing, and simply put it on, not even looking at song credits or anything, just naturally going on “Trip 1” followed by “Trip 1 (cont.)”—how would it make me feel? (Besides like a rolling stone.) Best to just try it: Trip 1. Well, like I’m on that monorail to Disney Heaven, harps and all. Interlude, cello, whatnot. Some otherworldly, ethereal vocal sounds (must be Minnie Riperton) at a range only ghosts can hear. Nice pop song. Is that a sitar or are you just happy to see me? Distant waves on a shore. Yma Sumac style “Lady Jane” —best version of this song ever. “Like a Rolling Stone” on a Golden Hits easy listening record from another galaxy. (cont.) If you could imagine hearing “Soul Man” in The Shire, Middle-earth, this is it. “Didn’t Want to Have to Do It” sounds alarmingly straight in this context—it’s a beautiful soul number—should have been a late Sixties No. 1! Then, 23 seconds of Baptist church. Fantastic “instrumental” (voices, la la la la etc.) it’s a scene from the forgotten-universe feature-film where Frank Sinatra plays an aging hippie, complete with groovy rug. As far as I know, at the beer-themed church next door, they do pull off a holy version of “Ruby Tuesday” —but I haven’t heard it until here. Okay! Finally? Guys? You don’t do yourselves any favors by ending with a “song” that’s essentially the sound of a confused listener dropping the needle and quickly rejecting the results… on this album. No one’s gonna dig that, except maybe the most consummate stoner. It is pretty funny, though.

5.1.26